


Waiting

by Ludovica



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, Oral Sex, Sensation Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludovica/pseuds/Ludovica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irri believes her khaleesi has been waiting too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [originally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/gifts).



> Written for originally for the Femslash Exchange 2014. I hope you'll enjoy it!

They are always waiting these days, and her khaleesi is not made for waiting.

Irri doesn’t quite know what they are waiting for. For a murder, she guesses. It’s been twenty days since the khaleesi promised to marry the Ghiscari, and there have not been any new reports of attacks – at least as far as she has heard. Irri hears most things that are going on in this pyramid. Missandei answers her when she asks her questions, and sometimes she makes the Unsullied talk. They seem to understand the reason why she needs to know – because she needs to know what is going on in her khaleesi’s head – and nobody has forbidden them from talking to her, or telling her of what has not happened.

They might be waiting for war, too. Irri can see how her khaleesi is staring out of the window every day, every morning, counting the ships on the horizon. When Irri looked this morning, there were fifteen, maybe seventeen. She tries not to look during the rest of the day. It’s unsettling, the thought of war at sea. The Dothraki don’t cross the poison water for a reason, no matter how much contempt the people who do not share their blood show them for it. What good has it done them, this vast, dark, dirty stretch of swill, but to make them soft and weak, to make them smell like rotten fruit and glitter like insect wings? They think they are so powerful, so clever, so important, but still she has seen the greatest of those cities open their doors and their treasuries to the khals in whose khalasars she has ridden, has seen them sell their livestock and their women to them, has seen them cower in fear of the ‘savages’ who do not care for their titles or the names of their puny ancestors.

(She has learned the Ghiscari words they use for them from Missandei, words like ‘savages’ and ‘horse whore’ and ‘stinking bitch’, words that she has heard thrown at her and Jhiqui so often that she just had to ask.)

The poison water has hollowed out their bones, made their brains rot. Why else should they trap themselves on tiny wooden crates on the open sea, without any way to escape storms or raiders? Irri has had one taste of this madness, and that one taste will last her a lifetime.

There is only one good thing that has ever come over the sea, and that is her khaleesi.

Irri is careful when she brushes out her hair this evening, as careful as she always is. When Irri first saw her khaleesi, she thought she was cursed, she and her brother as well. Her hair didn’t look natural – and neither did her eyes. She had seen people with blond hair and blue eyes before, like Doreah had had them, but silver and purple – that was not something that should have happened naturally.

She doesn’t think that her khaleesi is cursed now. It might be a blessing, a gift for the mother of dragons, a sign of the gods. She lets her left hand glide through the soft, silky tresses while her right hand keeps slowly, gently brushing her khaleesi’s hair. It’s a blessing for her too, to touch something so beautiful, so precious. She thinks again about the story Doreah told them – the story of the dragons that hatched from the moon as if she was an egg. Maybe Doreah was not as wrong as she had first thought. Maybe the moon did birth the dragons. Maybe the fire in their blood is the seed of the sun.

Maybe her khaleesi is the moon incarnate, trapped in a cage of flesh and silver hair.

She has been waiting too long. Irri can feel the heaviness of her thoughts, as if it were her own. She has been wanting too long. She has not let Irri touch her in a while now. Irri still sleeps next to her sometimes. Sometimes her khaleesi cuddles close to her body, but she tenses when Irri tries to kiss her like she would have done with Jhiqhi in their own little chamber. She has asked Jhiqhi if the khaleesi lets her touch her – but it’s the same, just cuddling and tensing when Jhiqhi tries to make her relax, to make her stop squirming.

Irri wonders if she should tell her khaleesi what she thought about. That she might be the moon of the world, not just of Khal Drogo. That she might be the mother of all dragons, not just of the two in the pit and the one roaming the sky.

Maybe that would make her laugh. She can’t remember when she has heard her laugh the last time. It’s such a pity – her voice is so pretty, and her laughter makes the night light up. But she laughs so rarely. Irri has only seen her do it twice, or three times, and that in nearly three years. Of course, a khaleesi shouldn’t laugh in public, and neither should a queen, or so it seems to her from what she has seen and heard. But her khaleesi is so young. And even when she smiles, there is sadness in her eyes.

Irri hasn’t even noticed that she has stopped to brush Daenerys’ hair. Her khaleesi doesn’t say anything at first, she waits for two heart-beats, then she starts to turn her head.

“Irri?”

Irri doesn’t let her turn around completely, though. Before Daenerys can look at her, Irri leans forward and hugs her, pushes her chest against her khaleesi’s narrow back. She knows that Jhiqhi would be better for this – Jhiqhi is better for cuddling, because Jhiqhi is softer and broader than Irri – but Jhiqhi isn’t here, and besides, Irri wants to feel her khaleesi close to her body, wants to make sure that her khaleesi is corporeal, not just moonlight filtered through the high windows of the pyramid.

“What are you doing, Irri?”

There is something like amusement in her khaleesi’s voice, and something like trepidation. Irri hugs her tighter.

“You look so sad all the time, khaleesi,” she answers. “Ever since we came to this city you look sad when you are alone with us. Let me help you not to feel sad for a while, please…”

And as so many times before, her khaleesi’s body grows tense in her arms.

“Irri…” she whispers, and Irri brushes her soft, bright hair to the side so she can kiss the nape of her neck. Her skin is softer than all the silk Irri has touched in her life.

“Please let me, khaleesi. I know how to make you not sad for a while.” Irri feels her voice rumble against her khaleesi’s delicate body. She feels her squirm in front of her, just a little bit, but then Irri kisses her neck again, and the squirming stops, and the tension in her body slowly slips away, and then Daenerys leans back into Irri’s embrace.

“This once,” her khaleesi whispers. “Just once.”

 

Irri smiles and nuzzles her face into the little crook where her jaw meets the back of her head. Her khaleesi has softer hair above the nape of her neck, just where her hair starts growing, and it feels like the downs of baby chicks against her skin.

She puts the brush down and stands up, takes a step back. Her khaleesi stands up also, and she turns and walks to the bed without looking at Irri. There is a faint blush on her cheeks already. Irri wonders how she looks in the throes of her passion, when her cheeks that have been as white as snow before the sun kissed them start to glow from the inside, when her flesh starts to sing with lust.

Irri follows her to the bed, and when Daenerys just stands in front of it without moving, Irri sits down in front of her. Her khaleesi has taken off her tokar earlier and is now wearing nothing but a thin, white silken shift. Irri smiles up to her and takes off her own dress first, which is easy since there is just one little brooch that holds the blue and yellow fabric on her body. It’s a beautiful dress, fitting the handmaiden of a queen, and Irri likes to think that she looks beautiful in it, but Daenerys in front of her is so beautiful in even the most simple of attire that Irri can’t even think of her precious dress as anything other than a nuisance at the moment. It slips over her skin and she quickly stands up, just for a second to shed it completely, then she sits down again and gently takes her khaleesi’s hand to pull her closer.

Her khaleesi kneels over her lap, and Irri leans back slightly to let her look at her. Some women don’t enjoy to look at other women’s bodies, but Irri has seen how her khaleesi has looked at Doreah, and now that same gleam, that same mist clouds her purple eyes, and Irri feels pride like warm wine flow through her veins, and she can’t keep a smile from her lips as she gently takes one of Danaerys’ hands, which have rested on her khaleesi’s own knees, and puts it on one of her breasts, until small, delicate fingers curl around the flesh. Her mound fits the hands of her khaleesi so nicely, as if it was made for the perimeter of her palms.

Her khaleesi is still shorter than her, so Irri doesn’t need her to bend down for a kiss; she can just put her hand on the back of her head and lean up to touch her khaleesi’s lips with her own.

It’s a shy kiss, shy and gentle, and neither of them tries to change that.

Irri takes her time. She stays at her khaleesi’s lips, tracing the soft petals with her own, gently adding just a little pressure once in a while, but eagerly replying whenever Daenerys is the first to push towards her. Her fingers start to run over her khaleesi’s arms, just the fingertips, and she smiles when she feels the goose bumps she is raising on her soft skin. She slips her fingers under the woven silk ropes that keep the shift on her shoulders, and gently pulls them down, then she just lets them fall over her arms. The silk pools around her khaleesi’s belly, and Irri breaths a last little kiss onto the corner of her mouth before she lets her lips run down over her jaw, her throat, her collarbones. Her fingers find her back, and again she touches her just with her fingertips, and just when her lips reach the point right between her small, firm breasts, right when her fingers brush over the ridge of her shoulder blades, a deep, thorough shiver runs through the soft body atop of her.

Irri looks up curiously, then she lets her fingers run over the skin of her back again. Her khaleesi’s eyelids flutter shut, and her lips fall open. Irri can’t help a little smile, and she kisses her just above her heart before she carefully puts her hands onto her khaleesi’s hips and moves up on the bed, until only her feet dangle over the edge. She kisses her khaleesi’s shoulder.

“Lie down on your belly, khaleesi.” Her voice is hoarse, a rough little whisper, and Daenerys just nods, moves off of Irri and lies down on the bed, her face snug against the pillow, her arms loosely stretched over her head. Irri smiles again and straddles her thighs. She looks so small on this large bed, but there is something that emanates from her, something that changes every room she is in, and Irri is infinitely drawn to her beauty, to her sweetness, to her strength.

Gently she strokes her khaleesi’s long hair to the side of her body, and even those little touches make Daenerys shiver. Irri leans forward, and now she just uses the tips of her nails, and she starts to run them over her khaleesi’s shoulders, down her arms and up again, over the outside of her shoulder blades, over her sides, to the small of her back. Her khaleesi starts trembling below her when Irri touches the sides of her ribs, and at first Irri thinks that she is just ticklish; but the noises that come from Daenerys aren’t laughter or snorting, but shaky, weak little gasps, and pleading, hardly audible moans. When Irri lets her fingertips ghost over her spine, up to the ridges at the inner edges of her shoulder blades, the muscles in her khaleesi’s back spasm, and the noises turn to whining, and Daenerys presses her face into her pillow to stifle herself.

Irri lets her fingers run up the nape of her neck, then down again, this time through the valleys between her shoulder blades and spine, and she takes her sweet time, lets her fingers run up and down a few times, scratches a little harder sometimes, uses only the tips of her fingers, not her nails, at other times. When her hands finally come to a rest at the small of her back, when her thumbs start to rub soothing circles into the skin just above her khaleesi’s buttocks, her khaleesi is shivering, gasping, whimpering. Her noises are so incredibly beautiful that Irri just can’t help the heat that makes wetness pool between her legs, and she clenches her thighs together a little more so she won’t start to drip on her khaleesi’s leg. With a low sigh Irri leans forward and starts to kiss Daenerys’ back, traces every ridge and grove and slope with her tongue and lips, until finally her khaleesi’s moans become intermingled with desperate sobs.

Irri sits up again, and gently she makes her khaleesi turn around. Her face is flushed completely, and her eyes are wet. For a second Irri is worried, but then she notices just how hard her khaleesi’s nipples are, how heavy her breathing sounds, how she clamps her thighs together. Her belly is trembling, and so are her breasts, and Irri leans down to kiss her khaleesi’s collarbone just once before she gently works one hand between her clenched legs. Dampness greets her fingers right at the start, and when Daenerys finally relaxes, finally opens her legs for her, her fingers dip into hot, perfect, dripping wetness. Her fingers glide through her sex nearly without Irri’s assistance. She strokes her khaleesi’s folds for a while, and the body below her hands convulses in pleasure, writhes beneath her. Daenerys throws her head back, closes her eyes, clenches her teeth. Irri leans forward to let the tip of her tongue lick a line up the side of her neck and to her ear, and she gently suckles the lobe of her khaleesi’s ear into her mouth while her fingers part the inner folds of her lap and one of them starts to rub circles against the little pearl where they meet at the top of her sex.

And her khaleesi’s mouth falls open, and her moan reverberates through Irri’s flesh, forces a little moan of her own over her lips.

Irri lets go of her, and her khaleesi knits her brow, opens her eyes, looks at her pleadingly.

“Just a second,” Irri whispers and scoots down between her khaleesi’s legs, spreads them open so she can kneel between them comfortably. Her khaleesi closes her eyes again, clutches the soft pillow with both arms, pushes her hips up for Irri. Irri smiles as she leans down, and the first taste of her khaleesi is salty-sweet and hot and liquid, with a bitter tang that sticks to the back of her mouth.

Irri takes her time to lap up her khaleesi’s wetness, massages her flesh with her tongue, rubs her lips over the hooded little nub. She explores the textures of her khaleesi’s sex, the soft skin of her inner lips, the firm flesh at the outsides, the delicious, completely smooth skin that leads between her inner folds down to her entrance; she lets her tongue play with the skin on the underside of her entrance, lets the tip of her tongue circle around it before she licks up again, before she finally pushes her lips to the top of her sex, so that her tongue can lave the little bud while she keeps sucking her tender flesh.

Her chin is dripping wet by the time her khaleesi’s thighs press down on her ears, by the time slim fingers start to push her head down, by the time her khaleesi cries out her climax. Irri leads her through it gently, keeps licking her, keeps sucking her, but she tries to do everything gentler, everything less, until the pressure around her ears finally subsides, and all tension leaves her khaleesi’s body. Irri buries her face in the bend between her khaleesi’s sex and her soft thigh and starts to touch herself with one hand. She is at least as wet as her khaleesi was, and her own climax nearly makes her legs give out under her.

Her khaleesi is nearly asleep when Irri stands up to get a cloth to clean her khaleesi’s thighs, and then her own face and hands. The smell of sex is thick in the room, but already the cool air of the night starts to creep into the pyramid, and Irri carefully makes her khaleesi move a little so that she can tug the blanket out from beneath her boneless body, and then Irri lays down next to her khaleesi, tucks the blanket around the both of them, and waits until Daenerys’ heavy breathing grows calmer, more regular. Then she closes her eyes, and waits to be pulled under by the divine heaviness of the climax that still resonates throughout her body.

She doesn’t have to wait long.


End file.
